Sometimes at Night

by Ben Sanders

  Marshall shook his head. ‘No need. We can clear this all up right now. What was Ray Vialoux doing for you that got him killed?’

  D’Anton stood there looking at him.

  Marshall said, ‘Your image is important, right? You want people to take you seriously. But you can’t stab me here, we’ve covered that.’ He turned, glanced at the Tahoe. ‘And you can’t drive anywhere. You could walk wherever you’re heading, and I could follow, and we could make it a spectacle.’ He shrugged. ‘Or I guess you could go inside, and I can keep coming back, and people will start to think you’re trying to avoid me.’

  D’Anton said, ‘Your image seems important to you, too. Hard to come striding up to people, be a pain in the ass, if you’re in a wheelchair with two broken legs.’

  Marshall said, ‘Broken legs? Better than being stabbed in the balls. Two meetings, you’re softening already.’

  D’Anton was moving the umbrella slightly, twisting it back and forth. The spiked circumference passing left and right across his forehead and the gaze below it even sharper.

  Marshall said, ‘You’re still thinking it through, huh?’

  He tipped his head, aiming at the white town house.

  ‘Let’s go inside. That’s the easy way to do it. Otherwise people will start asking why I’m following you around, wonder what you’ve been doing that it’s worth my effort. Police tend to wonder these things, you know? Especially given my history.’

  The security guys were still standing, watching, so patient and unmoved they seemed like set-dressing for the interaction. Recordings of suited men, overlaid on the street by way of hologram.

  D’Anton moved away, heading for his front door. When he reached the curb, he stopped and turned back, nodded at the Tahoe. ‘Is Ms. Mora joining us, or is she just a chauffeur?’

  He knew the man wanted a reaction, dropping the fact he knew her name, but Marshall just said, ‘Yeah, she’ll come in for a talk.’

  D’Anton said, ‘I’ll give you ten minutes. Consider that a tremendous courtesy. You’re not a policeman anymore.’

  D’Anton went into his white palace, followed by one of the security guys on the sidewalk. The other man took up guard duty in the alcove, and the third guy got back in the Lincoln. Marshall waited outside for Jordan to park the Tahoe, and when she walked back and joined him, she said, ‘You first.’

  Saying it with half a smile, but Marshall thought trepidation was definitely warranted. Easier to stab and maim inside your own home, rather than out on the street.

  But nothing happened. They entered the foyer unimpeded. It was an impressive space. Double-height ceiling, curved stairs accessing a wide balcony cantilevered from the second level, a security guy at the balustrade keeping watch, solemn as a pallbearer. The floor was marble, patterned with some kind of intricate geometric art, and against one wall were two life-size mannequins dressed in Batman costumes. Muscled body armor, and the full cape and cowl, molded out of what looked like thick black rubber.

  A white-gloved butler was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Sir. Ma’am …’

  The guy gave a tight smile and a tight little bow, a ten-degree incline before resuming strict vertical. His gaze went back and forth a couple times between Marshall and Jordan, as if in pre-emptive reproach of any unbecoming conduct.

  ‘If you’ll follow me …’

  They followed.

  The guy set a brisk pace down a white hallway, framed landscape paintings on both walls, delicate scrollwork along the cornicing. There were open doorways to either side. On the right was an office, and then a library with low, fat furniture and leather-bound volumes shelved floor to ceiling. On the left was a long kitchen area, industrial-grade, large enough for restaurant catering.

  They came out into a parquet-floored living room, French doors giving a view of a small planted courtyard. Beside the French doors, D’Anton Lewis was sitting on a high-backed red-leather sofa, opposite a pair of red-leather armchairs. In the center of the room was a wooden coffee table so dark and notched and scarred it looked to Marshall like it got here on the Mayflower.

  He said, ‘I like your Batman gear. You wear that at night?’

  D’Anton Lewis gave a sub-zero smile. He said to the butler, ‘Thank you, Jeremy.’

  The butler did his ten-degree bow. ‘I’ll be in the study, sir, should you need anything.’

  He departed with a prim and fading clack of shoe leather, and D’Anton said, ‘One was George Clooney’s suit, from the ’ninety-seven film, and the other was from the ’eighty-nine original. Michael Keaton wore it. They’d deteriorated a lot when I bought them, so I had them remolded. They break the rubber down and blend it with resin and then set it on plaster molds.’

  Marshall said, ‘Did they still have a copy of the heads, or did you get them in for a re-cast?’

  D’Anton smiled but said nothing, sitting there quite placid, like any prior tension was distant and forgotten. Marshall took one of the red armchairs, and Jordan took the other.

  Marshall said, ‘You had me checked out.’

  D’Anton made a show of sliding back his cuff to check the time. He wore a gold watch that Marshall thought would present a risk of theft by amputation. He was almost like a parody of a gentleman. The polished shoes, the trousers blade-sharp through the creases, a three-button waistcoat on over the shirt.

  D’Anton said, ‘Nine minutes. You’re lucky I started the clock when you walked in.’

  He rubbed his hands together carefully, as if checking he still had all his fingers. ‘I apologize for yesterday. I’ll concede it was unnecessary. I had various things on my mind and …’ He looked away, came back with a smile that seemed more knowing than sympathetic. ‘Pressure sometimes manifests as rudeness, doesn’t it?’

  Marshall nodded. ‘Death threats could be regarded as unseemly.’

  D’Anton glanced around the room, apparently out of interest. Maybe the house was big enough, he didn’t come in here too often.

  He said, ‘I assure you nothing we’re dealing with warrants facetiousness.’

  Marshall said, ‘You threatened to kill me yesterday. I’m just trying to bring the pressure back to a civilized level.’

  D’Anton looked again at his watch, but made no comment on time elapsed. He said, ‘To answer your question, yes. I did have you checked out. Or rather, I knew who you were by virtue of your knowing Mr Vialoux.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? How does that work?’

  ‘Basically, you spend half-a-million dollars per year on counterintelligence, and you find out who the friends of your friends are. And you also find out if they hold positions that might pose …’ He looked away. ‘I don’t know. How do we put it? A conflict of interest, I suppose.’ Looking back at him. ‘The short answer being, I have some paperwork pertaining to you.’

  ‘Right. And you decided I’m the kind of guy you can afford to confide in.’

  ‘Well, not necessarily. All those redaction marks in your file, I wasn’t sure if they were covering up honesty or deception.’

  ‘Which would be of most comfort to you?’

  ‘Yes, very clever.’

  Marshall said, ‘Do you know what’s happened to Ray?’

  D’Anton nodded. ‘I have a copy of the police report. I understand he was shot right in front of you.’

  ‘Exactly. There’s no mystery about the how. We just need to know the why. And the who.’

  D’Anton looked at him.

  Marshall said, ‘What are you mixed up in?’

  D’Anton shook his head slowly. ‘Who says I’m mixed up in anything.’

  Marshall said, ‘Loretta Flynn, from NYPD.’

  ‘Ah, Loretta. You’ve met her, I take it.’

  ‘We had a nice meeting in her car after I saw you yesterday. She was worried I might shoot you or something. But she wouldn’t go into why she’s so interested in you. Apparently though, she runs drug-trafficking investigations, so I’m tempted to put two and tw
o together.’

  D’Anton smiled indulgently. ‘Guilt and suspicion aren’t the same thing.’

  Jordan said, ‘You keep a lot of security around. For someone who’s committed to honest business.’

  D’Anton put a foot up on the coffee table. Maybe it wasn’t from the Mayflower.

  He said, ‘My wife is missing. I’m trying to find her.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Marshall didn’t answer that right away, thinking there might be some follow-up exposition, but the man was comfortable with silence. He looked like he might sit there wordless on his red sofa all day. Beyond him through the French doors, Marshall saw a security man make a loop of the courtyard. He recognized him from yesterday, but it wasn’t his friend with the sore shoulder.

  Marshall said, ‘How long’s she been gone?’

  ‘Ten weeks.’

  ‘That’s a long time to be missing.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  Jordan said, ‘Has there been a ransom demand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what exactly happened?’

  D’Anton shook his head slowly, mouth downturned, as if baffled by the simplicity of it all. ‘She went out one day and didn’t come back.’ He checked the time again. ‘She was hospitalized for depression and anxiety five years ago. Her health now is excellent, but she still sees a therapist in Boston once a month. Last appointment, she left here in the morning and didn’t return.’

  Jordan said, ‘Did she attend the appointment?’

  D’Anton nodded. ‘We contacted the clinic. Apparently there were no concerns.’

  ‘Has she been back since?’

  ‘No. She canceled the following appointment.’

  ‘How did she get to Boston?’

  ‘By train. Amtrak from Penn Station.’

  Jordan said, ‘Did she have a return ticket?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently it was never redeemed.’

  Marshall said, ‘It might be a separation. Without the parting sentiments.’

  D’Anton said, ‘We’ve been married twenty-three years. She never gave me any indication of being unhappy.’

  ‘So have you notified the police?’

  D’Anton shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t. As I’m sure you’ve gathered, my relationship with NYPD is antagonistic. To say the least.’

  Marshall said, ‘And I assume you don’t want them in close proximity to your drug-running enterprise, or whatever the hell you’re up to.’

  D’Anton checked the time.

  Marshall said, ‘How are we doing?’

  D’Anton said, ‘You’ve obviously formed some conception of me as a person with unsavory connections. And I’m not commenting one way or the other.’ He looked back and forth between them, and then smiled. ‘But whatever negative view you’ve formed, make sure you don’t forget it. Know that when I say none of this goes to the police, I mean it.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘None of this goes to the police.’

  They didn’t answer. The same security guy did a tour of the little courtyard.

  Jordan said, ‘So you took it to Vialoux, rather than the police?’

  D’Anton nodded. ‘I’ll agree it’s circumstantial, but hopefully the facts of the matter are clear. My wife is missing. Mr Vialoux attempted to find her. Mr Vialoux is now dead. I’m fairly convinced there’s some connection there, irrespective of your disparagement of the scenario as …’ He looked out at the courtyard. ‘Some kind of divorce trial-run. But I think it’s fairly simple. Find who has my wife, you’ll find who killed Mr Vialoux.’

  Marshall said, ‘What did Vialoux think happened?’

  D’Anton seemed to consider the decor for a moment. Then he said, ‘My professional landscape is very difficult to navigate. Industry standards change. What I mean by that is they deteriorate. Connections and information-sharing are detrimentally ubiquitous. People see how others operate, and traditions suffer as a consequence.’

  Marshall said, ‘I don’t know what any of that means.’

  D’Anton said, ‘What I mean is that I used to be able to go about my business, and I felt that the risk was mine alone. There wasn’t hazard by association. But as I say, things change. My family is at tremendous risk. And now I’m fairly confident that my wife has been kidnapped by the Italian mob.’

  Marshall let that announcement have a few seconds’ silence. Then he said, ‘But there’s been no ransom, and no contact.’

  ‘Correct. But the message is still clear. It’s the unspoken that’s most powerful. Stop what you’re doing, or we can keep this up. Your whole world will just silently erode.’

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  D’Anton said, ‘Mr Vialoux had mob contacts through his police work. As you do too, I’m sure. I thought that experience might be enough to get me what I needed. In the case of Mr Vialoux, it wasn’t. But now I’m thinking, maybe second time lucky.’

  Marshall said, ‘Italian mob’s got a few members. Who are we talking about in particular?’

  ‘A man named Michael Langello.’

  Frank Cifaretti’s boss. MIA Mikey.

  D’Anton said, ‘What do you know about him?’

  Marshall shrugged. ‘Never met him. But I understand he’s senior on the chain. One of his people is a guy called Frank Cifaretti. Vialoux seemed to think he was the source of most of his problems.’

  He told D’Anton about Vialoux’s gambling debt.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So you didn’t know anything about it?’

  D’Anton shook his head, studied a cuff link: silver, intricate, evidently to his satisfaction. He said, ‘Hard to repay a debt when you’re dead, isn’t it?’

  ‘So I gathered.’

  D’Anton looked up. ‘Which means that obviously it was something else that got him killed.’ Silence for a beat, and then he said, ‘Like perhaps he was investigating a disappearance, and the only way to make him stop was to make him dead.’

  Marshall said, ‘How far did Vialoux get with it?’

  ‘He had inferences, but no proof. He assumed based on my business activity and commercial interests that Mr Langello was responsible. But … and modesty aside, my activities have proved disruptive in our particular sector—’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘—so it could have been one of a number of parties. But our belief is that Mr Langello is responsible for the disappearance.’

  ‘Have you asked him about it?’

  D’Anton shook his head. ‘Mr Langello’s whereabouts are a mystery, too.’

  Just like Frank Cifaretti told him.

  Marshall said, ‘I thought you said you’re paying half-a-million a year in counterintelligence. Do you have to buy the premium package if you want people found?’

  ‘It’s not a question of money. It’s a question of whether your name appears in a government database. If it doesn’t, they can’t help you.’

  Quiet for a beat.

  D’Anton said, ‘Her credit cards haven’t shown any charges since the day before she went missing. Her appointment was in the afternoon, so she was going to spend a night in Boston afterward, but she never checked into the hotel.’

  Marshall thought about all of that, and D’Anton watched him, one hand patting out a rhythm in half-tempo clockwork on the sofa arm.

  Marshall said, ‘We’ll need a photo at least. Date of birth, social security, address for the clinic in Boston. The more information the better, obviously.’

  D’Anton lifted his chin, raised his voice: ‘Did you hear that, Jeremy?’

  From the hallway behind them: ‘Yes, sir.’

  D’Anton stood up. ‘Jeremy will assist you. Wait here. I’m out of time, I’m afraid.’

  Marshall said, ‘Have we reached our ten minutes?’

  D’Anton’s smile was one of cool detachment, like a sales assistant being told, I’ll think about it. He said, ‘Have a nice afternoon. Jeremy will be with you shortly.’

  He walked out, and the sound of his shoes clipped a
way neatly down the hallway. From the front of the house came the dull thud of the giant front door closing, and then a moment’s silence, and then the familiar shoe-sole rhythm resumed in ascending volume as the butler approached and entered the room. He handed Marshall a sheet of paper, slightly curled, still warm from the printer.

  ‘Ms. Lewis’ passport, sir. You’ll see I’ve written the clinic address there, too.’

  The passport image was a copy of the information page. The date of issue was 2018. Renee Lewis was black, born in 1981 in Spokane, Washington. Always something of a photogenic feat, Marshall thought, looking good in a passport photo, but she’d managed it. She was attractive, and the smile she wore looked almost premonitory. Subdued and slightly sad even, as if she knew that at some stage her headshot would be information in a missing persons case. On the reverse side in handwritten block capitals were the details for the therapist: Dr Ruth Davin. A phone number, and an address on Beacon Street in Boston.

  The butler said, ‘Sir, ma’am. If you’ll follow me …’

  Marshall folded the page in half as he got to his feet – a rare but nonetheless precise longitudinal fold – the better for inner-coat-pocket transport. He’d read that the world record for sequential paper folds had been set by a woman called Britney Gallivan, who’d folded a four-thousand-foot length of paper twelve times. Marshall had only ever managed a few dubious sevens. He fell into step behind Jordan as she followed the butler out of the room, into the hallway through which they’d entered.

  They had a head start on him, more considered on Marshall’s part than it appeared, and his twelve-foot lag meant neither of them noticed when he sidestepped to his right through the first of the three open doors between the hallway and the kitchen.

  Brisk and quiet along the length of the room. Cool and perfect. Stainless benches without a spot or blemish. At the third door, standing with his shoulder to the frame, a baseball bat in one hand, hanging by his leg, was the bodyguard he’d met yesterday: his armlock victim.

  Marshall stood quietly behind him, looking past the guy’s ear as first the butler and then Jordan came along the hallway. The human brain is a pattern-hungry organ, and the space between them implied an order of appearance. The butler–Jordan gap should’ve been matched by the Jordan–Marshall gap, had he been tailing them. Except he wasn’t, and Marshall saw the guy stiffen with the realization that something wasn’t right – as instantly apparent as a missed step in a dance – and he leaned forward and said into the guy’s ear, ‘He’s standing right behind you.’